


Drink The Sunset

by Spiced_Wine



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Inspired by Fanfiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Originally a gift-fic in 2012 to Elfscribe on her 10 years in the fandom. Posted on Faerie. </p><p>Inspired by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/4190697/chapters/9465096">Elegy For Númenor</a>, elements of the storyline come directly from Elegy. Sûla and Tigôn are Elfscribe’s original characters. This is definitely AU to Elegy, and a crossover with my Dark Prince 'verse. </p><p>The summer after events in Elegy, Sûla, once the King's courtesan, considers how his life has changed as Annatar's servant, not realizing the greatest change is yet to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. ~ The Shadows Of Summer ~

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elfscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfscribe/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Elegy for Númenor - Volume 1: Journey to Umbar](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190697) by [elfscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfscribe/pseuds/elfscribe). 



~ It was the still time before dawn. Only a few lamps were lit, glinting from the armour of night-guards on the last weary leg of their watch. Sûla took little note of them. He crossed a court where a fountain murmured, and a fish leaped in a dark pool. The air was warm, windless, heavy with the scent of night-blooming flowers. Here, he might have lingered, listening to the resonant song of the nightingale, but his master would brook no delay.   
A wide hall opened before him. Statues of warriors and kings long laid in the Valley of the Tombs gazed over his head and Sûla thought, fanciful, that they watched him. Night thoughts, nevertheless, he walked more quickly, and left them behind, passed through another hall to a shallow flight of white stairs.   
  
It had been a strange day, he thought, as he negotiated the steps, a strange evening. He had not attended Annatar at feast, and that was rare. When he had asked what he must do instead, the Zigûr* replied: “Remain here, rest. I should think you would be grateful.”   
  
Sûla knew better than to show displeasure at any command his master issued, and had bowed assent. At such times he wished for some-one to confide in, some-one he could trust not to go to the highest bidder with his words. There was no-one.   
  
At the head of the stairs stretched a long passage. The late-riding moon plunged ghostly fingers through tall windows, and Sûla passed from light to shadow, sandalled feet whispering. Dead incense hung in the air like a faded ghost. Sûla did not like the palace at night, at least when he was alone. It was too easy to believe the tales told on winter nights, to imagine something followed him in the dark. A little shiver weltered through him, and he gripped the wine-jug more tightly, shunted his mind elsewhere, to his life.   
In many ways, his condition had improved since the winter, but he had not known then how powerful his new master truly was. He had learned and seen things it were better, for his peace of mind, that he had not. The saying that ignorance was a state to be envied, had proven true.   
  
Changes had come to Armenelos, though they were most visible in the hidden court, the dark side of the glittering palace. Within that court, Ar-Pharazôn drank from the cup of debauchery ever more greedily, as if the Zigûr's elixir could make him immune to excesses. But they were taking their toll. There were whispers among the servants that he looked puffy and sick in the mornings. Sûla did not know the truth of those rumours, only that the King demanded the potion as a cure for his more frequent hangovers. Watching Annatar's face with close attention, Sûla saw contempt in the curve of that lush mouth as his master explained that the elixir was not to be used for such trivialities; the ingredients were expensive, some more than rare.   
  
“I have gold enough.” the King had slammed both fists down on the arms of his great chair. “I have ships enough. I can send men to the farthest reaches of the world to procure what you need.”   
  
“Your will, O King.” Annatar had bowed like a father humouring a child's temper tantrum.   
  
Sûla still danced for the King at times, and had been summoned to the royal bed once, after their triumphant return to Númenor. He was unable to repress another shiver at the memory of that procession through the streets of Rómenna and Armenelos. It had been a frightening experience. While not bound to a cross as he had been in Umbar, Annatar had been chained and guarded. Despite his relationship with the King, there must be no doubt in the eyes of the world that he was a prisoner. The crowds had pressed close, and there was a raw undertow of hunger in their cries. Sûla remembered his own arrest in Umbar, how curses and filth had been hurled at him, and was chilled to the bone, certain that only the mounted soldiers kept the mob away. Annatar's beautiful face betrayed nothing of his feelings, but his eyes were fire.   
  
There had, of course, been a homecoming feast, a magnificent affair, with Ar-Pharazôn in an excellent mood. Power over the Zigûr was a strong aphrodisiac, as Sûla had reason to know. Annatar, in contrast, looked remote, otherworldly, as if the occasion were below his notice.   
  
Sûla had not seen Tigôn at the feast and though his friend had warned him he would not be present, was conscious of disappointment. The lords Amandil and Elendil were in attendance, faces set in still, faintly smiling masks, that became more fixed as the night progressed. The Queen was absent, and Sûla could not but be glad of it. Tar-Miriel's faction detested the zirâmîkil,** but there was no love between the royal couple, and rarely did the two courts mingle. She had greeted her husband formally on his arrival, and so might well be excused an event she was known to dislike.   
  
The dancers excelled themselves, proud to be chosen, and hoping for largesse. Sûla was only satisfied with his own performance. He had not danced since that night in Tigôn's small chamber. Best not to think on that. The court applauded, bestowed trinkets and coin on favoured performers, then settled down to the serious business of drinking. Sûla hurried to wait on his master, and was in a good position to watch, as he had been instructed, the courtiers faces, their interactions.   
  
The King's drunken teasing of Annatar became more obvious as the night progressed, and was rebuffed by a lacquered shield. To Sûla's sober, admittedly biased eyes, Ar-Pharazôn's ill-concealed and clumsy attempts at flirtation were risible; not only to his eyes, if he read Amandil and Elendil aright. Sûla was embarrassed, as one is when some-one makes a fool of themselves in public. Did Ar-Pharazôn think every-one was deaf and blind to his affair with Annatar, that no-one talked? The King and his Zigûr were a rich a mine for gossip as could be found. Embarrassment curdled into distaste when the King's eyes turned to him, and Sûla had hoped that Annatar would refuse the King's command, but golden cat-eyes merely flicked a look under long lashes. Annatar was forced to bed with Ar-Pharazôn, after all, and liked it not at all. But there was a promise in that glance, or so Sûla wanted to believe: that it would not always be the King's pleasure that ruled.   
  
At least it had been a brief service, if disagreeable. The elixir might give the King more stamina, but it did not affect his oafish performance, which was also more violent than when Sûla had been his bed slave. Ar-Pharazôn had always been a man who thought of his own pleasure first and last, and believed sexual skill was inborn. As Sûla well knew, it was an acquired skill, but one which slaves, not kings, must learn, it seemed. No longer Ar-Pharazôn's zirâmîki, he saw no reason to cozen the King's ego with cries of feigned pleasure, and took a brittle satisfaction in laying limp as he was hammered into the mattress.   
  
When it was over, and the King slept, Sûla slipped from the bed to clean himself. He might not leave until he was dismissed, and must ensure there was wine at hand for when the King woke; he had a tendency to shake after such nights, and the only thing to cure them was more drink. Then, no doubt, he would take Sûla again.   
The chamber was not dark. (The King liked to watch his bed-slaves in the act) He found the the wine in a bowl of melting ice, and set a jewelled goblet beside it. His movements were reflected from one of the long mirrors, and he stepped closer, stared at himself in the glass, at the face and body that had attracted a King, but could not keep him. His hair was a mass of sex-tousled black curls, and his eyes looked enormous, the kohl smudged like soot against his lashes. His lips were swollen from taking the King in his mouth, the lip-paint rubbed away. He allowed himself a sip of wine to take away the strong taste of the seed, and drew a comb through his curls, primping from long habit. Honey eyes and honey skin, Ar-Pharazôn had said of him once. So much for compliments. So much for beauty. The King would have sentenced him to an agonizing death for a crime he had not committed because he was a slave, and his words would not stand against a noble's.   
  
_But one day. One day..._   
  
Laying down as far as possible from the large body that breathed and sweated out soured wine, Sûla thought how different was Annatar. They did not share a bed unless engaged in sex, (and that was a wide world away from the King's rutting) but the Zigûr was fastidious as a cat. Sûla could not imagine him wallowing in drunken sleep. It was odd, he considered, that in so short a time, he had come to look on his former master with disgust. Or perhaps not. Slaves could not afford to dwell on their circumstances. They could look to past or future, but to confront the present was the road to sorrow and worse. Sûla had once, and not long ago, told himself that servicing the King was a small price to pay for his position, his jewels, warmth, food and fine clothes, but the truth was that he — all slaves — _had_ to fool themselves. They had nothing but their dreams.   
  
Dreams. His mind swung, despite itself, toward curling flax hair, a smile of unconscious charm, and flower-blue eyes that held the innocence Sûla had long lost. Annatar wanted him to remain friends with Tigôn, despite the King's prohibition, but Sûla knew his master was not prompted by kindness. Sûla was to act the spy. Tigôn served one of the Faithful, whom Annatar mistrusted, or so he said. Sûla thought 'mistrust' was the wrong word; it implied fear, and he did not think there was much in this world the Zigûr truly feared. No, there was another reason for his interest in the Elendili.*** They followed the ways of old Númenor, and their interests ran counter to Annatar's.   
  
Sûla stiffened, then felt his lips part in astonishment as one of the inner doors opened, and Annatar entered as casually as if these were his own rooms. The twin lamps turned his hair to a river of flame. He tilted his head, and Sûla climbed from the bed, padded across to him.   
  
“Go back to our chambers.” Annatar pitched his voice low, but did not deign to whisper. Sûla looked back at the bed. Ar-Pharazôn's snore ground on.   
“He has not dismissed me, my Lord.”   
  
“But I have.”   
  
Sûla had been flaccid with the King, but now he began to swell as Annatar pulled the silk robe from his splendid body. To be close to him was like standing under a storm. Sûla swayed, and Annatar caught him, slid a palm about his rigid length and brought him, there in the King's chamber, to blinding release. Sûla laughed silently, shaken, swooped down and performed the office of easement on Annatar, felt him explode into his mouth with that odd, exciting taste. He smiled up at the Zigûr, who winked, drew him to his feet. Sûla cast another cautious look at the shadowy bulk of the King, and fine fingers drew his head back. The golden eyes glowed in the dimness, as if Annatar's face were a marble mask, and beneath it lay chasms of fire.   
“He will remember nothing when he wakes.” Scorn in the words. “I will tell him he ordered you away, for me to replace you.”   
  
There was a delightful, illicit feeling in this cuckolding of the mightiest king on Earth, or so Ar-Pharazôn believed himself, and in his own bedchamber. Sûla owed the King naught, and was not ashamed. It was Annatar whom had saved his life, then healed him after the flogging that would have marred his flesh forever, made him useless as a zirâmîki. But Sûla did not forget Tigôn, whom had risked and lost his position and reputation to help him. The two, Zigûr and page, stood as far apart in Sûla's mind as the east and west. There was nothing that connected them. Except himself.   
  
“Why, my Lord?”   
  
He thought Annatar would not answer, but then he bent his head to Sûla's ear. That glorious copper hair spilled over his shoulders, cool as silk against Sûla's hot flesh. He could barely stifle a moan of arousal.  
  
“The King has an addiction. It is my duty as his loyal...ah, subject to feed it. Go.” He swatted playfully at Sûla's backside.   
  
That had been the last time Sûla shared the King's bed, though he must needs still service him to procure fresh seed.   
  
Spring came to Númenor, then its long, lovely summer, and it seemed to Sûla that Annatar's influence grew apace with the heat. He sat beside the King in council, and it was an ill-kept secret that he served Ar-Pharazôn more intimately. He was soon given new chambers, apartments that ran along one wing of the palace, and overlooked a garden. As the blossoms opened, delicious scents filled the wide rooms, and Annatar often walked there in the evenings. Sûla had never, even with the King, lived so graciously, and for once in his life did not have to endure sex. Annatar wholly undid him. He wondered if he were as addicted to the Zigûr as was the King. And yet his heart still hurt, beat fast and wayward at the thought of Tigôn. The last time they had met was at Rómenna, the inn of the Eagle Eye, as they had promised one another.   
  
Their plan of escape seemed ridiculous now. Sûla had fed it aboard ship, when Annatar was with the King and there was nothing else for him to do. Boredom was dangerous. He allowed himself to imagined a life with Tigôn, a house in some quiet place where no-one knew them. They would be forgotten, could eat one another up at night, discover all the facets that made them what they were, and — love.   
He had been a careless fool to let his mind drift with the roll of the waves. Annatar had read him as easily as a scroll.   
There had been punishment, not the expected whipping, but worse than Sûla could have imagined. And the Zigûr did not lay a hand on him.   
The ship's cramped cabin melted away. Sûla woke face-down on dusty wool. Screams skirled up in his throat as his stepfather raped him. He felt the tear of delicate skin, the burn as Khunig pounded, a raw horror that lasted a lifetime. Then he was drowning, head plunged and held under water. He knew, dreadfully, that his other life had never happened, that this was all there was. His memories shattered into nothingness as a hard hand dragged his head up. He choked, gagged as his stepfather dragged him from the yard, and flung him down, battered him with words, with slaps that made his head ring, then grabbed his hips.   
  
Sûla screams filled his head, and out of the red torture stepped Annatar, trailing fire. He held Sûla's face in those elegant hands, and impaled him with a look more ancient than Time. For a whirling moment of disorientation, Sûla could not think at all, and then memory returned like tesserae fitting together.   
  
“Body and soul, my dear Sûla.” Annatar's face was pitiless. “You are mine.”   
  
Sûla's clothes clung to his body, drenched with icy sweat. He coughed as if he had in truth been drowned, and his body shrieked its violation. His breath shook as he heaved it into his lungs, hiccuping. The Zigûr had frightened him before, but never this much.   
And then he changed, which was almost as unnerving. He gave Sûla wine, and stroked his cheek, caressing.   
“Of course you may meet him,” he said, his smile a white blade. “And you will tell him the truth, that you cannot keep secrets from me, and that I will not let you go. You serve me.” He rose, poured himself wine, and lounged, feline-graceful, against the wall, one brow arched. “A child's dream,” he said with a moue. “Tigôn is a lordling, and if he believes his family will allow him to run off and live with a slave, he is a greater fool than I imagined. Noble sons have responsibilities. He should know that better than any. And did I not tell you to put aside matters of the heart? I am sure I remember some such advice.”   
  
Sûla shuddered. It was not, he wanted to say, so easy, but no words came.   
  
Annatar tilted his head and a wolf looked out of his eyes. Sûla's shivers intensified, weakness dragged through his body as if his blood were lead, cold and heavy.   
  
“Yes, the effects of crossing me can be quite unpleasant.” All milky-calm. “But I think you understand me now, or must I reiterate?”   
  
_No. No, please._ Sûla still could not speak, but Annatar nodded.   
“One day,” he said. “If you serve me well, you will be powerful enough, have enough prestige to call any-one to your bed.” He put the wine down, prowled close and set a fingertip under Sûla's chin. “But that time is not yet, and it will be never if you seek to deceive me again, young one.” ~    
  



	2. ~ The Taste Of Blood-red Wine ~

~ The punishment haunted Sûla. It was worse than physical pain. He would press his hand against his chest expecting to feel a wound where some fanged demon had entered.   
  
And so, his meeting with Tigôn had not gone as planned. His friend's disbelief climbed from hurt into anger until, startling Sûla, Tigôn said out of nowhere: “He hurt you.”   
  
“He did not touch me.” But there was a quaver to his voice.   
  
“What did he _do?_ ” Tigôn pushed him down on a padded bench. The room was small but comfortable, the door locked behind them. Wine stood on a table and he poured two cups, pressed one into Sûla's hands.   
“Tell me.” And unexpectedly. “It's in your eyes.”   
  
Shaken at this sudden tenderness, Sûla drank. Tigôn gazed at him, a frown between his brows, then dropped down to sit beside him, laid a hand on his back. Sûla's eyes pricked.   
“He made me think...I was in Brûni, my village, my stepfather...” He drank again. “I thought this life had been a dream, that I was truly there — and it _hurt._ ” He did not say he had physically bled from that phantom usage, that bruises had flowered on his back, his face, his hips. Annatar had given him a draught of the elixir and all traces were gone now, but memory could not be so swiftly banished.   
  
Tigôn's face changed. It looked older, showed the man he would become. Sûla thought, as he had not before, that Tigôn, with his Númenorean blood, would live far longer than he, an Umbarian, and loneliness closed about him like a prison, a stone cell where no light came. Only the Zigûr, with his terrifying power, had promised him any kind of future.   
  
“If I run away, he will find me.” Under the fine wool of his tunic, the gold serpent seemed to stretch and tighten about his arm. “But if I stay with him — and I have to — he has said...”   
  
“What?” Tigôn's voice was hard, but his hand gentle as it rubbed his back.   
  
“He said I will have power.” It came as a whisper. “Influence. Wealth. Freedom to choose whom I love. Don't you see?” He appealed, lifted his eyes to Tigôn's grave face. “That is the only way I could ever be with you.”   
  
“He's lying. he is a master of lies. The Elves called him _Gorthaur_ , the cruel.”   
  
“And was not the King cruel? All I could expect as his zirâmîki was to be cast off once he tired of me. As I was, _as he did._ Annatar promises _more._ ”   
  
“Oh, Sûla.” Now there was a sparkle in Tigôn's eyes. They embraced, clung, and then were kissing, ravenously, with the desperation of lovers who know they must part soon. It was so beautiful, so _good_. Tigôn was like sweet, cool water a man drinks when fever shakes his bones. And Sûla _was_ shaking. Tears escaped his eyes. He tasted their salt on Tigôn's lips.   
  
“ _Izrê._ ” The word came like a drop of heart's blood. He held the fair face between his hands, as Annatar held his own. “He will wink at our friendship, ensure the King does not find out — ”   
  
“Aye, for a price.”   
  
Sûla lowered his eyes to the pulse that beat in Tigôn's throat.   
“At least this way there is hope.”   
  
“ _He_ is to be our _estel_?” Slim fingers traced Sûla's mouth. “Ask the Zigûr what it means. He'll know. I am afraid for you. He is so dangerous. I will have to tell my Lord of this.”   
  
“And you think he would care what was done to me, a slave? I have seen how he and his father look at me. They will say I am exaggerating, playing for sympathy.”   
  
Tigôn's hands closed about his wrists, drew them down.   
“They haven't seen you. I have.”   
  
They sat in forlorn silence, the distant sounds of the port city muffled by the walls. Their hands clasped, and Sûla wanted Tigôn with an ache so profound he was surprised by his depth of feeling. Courtesans were not supposed to love. It was unwise, lead only to heartbreak. On that thought he stood, pulling his hands away. Tigôn rose with him.   
“You're going.”   
  
“I have to.”  
  
Silence fell again, this time it was full of broken glass. After a moment, Tigôn said, “I am being sent to Andúnië.” And with a bleak, adult quirk of his mouth, “For my _sins._ ”   
  
Sûla's heart hollowed out. “You will come back?”   
  
The blue eyes searched his face. “I will,” Tigôn said. “I swear to you. But you must swear to me, to be careful.”   
  
Sûla found he could not bear to leave without one more kiss. This one smashed his resolve to flinders and fire coiled in his loins. It was, in the end, Tigôn who wrenched himself away, his face flushed.   
“Go.” He sounded like the lordling he was. “Go before it's too late.” He turned away, and Sûla felt as if a cord stretched between them from soul to soul.   
  
“Until then,” he said, and fumbled blindly for the door. The streets blurred before his eyes.   
  


~~~

  
  
And so, to this day. Sûla had started up from a light doze when his master returned that evening, told him to get wine. Since the stranger's arrival, there had been a glitter to the Zigûr, almost an excitement. His body seemed to exude crackling heat. Unnerved, Sûla asked no questions, and made his way down to the extensive cellars. The vintage Annatar had requested was rare, served at the King's high table and only on certain days of celebration, but no-one would deny him, certainly not the cellarer.   
  
As part of the Erulaitalë observances, the King and Queen had listened to petitions together this afternoon. The Queen sat beautiful and remote, armoured in diamonds and dignity, but infinitely more gracious than her husband. And then had come the stranger, very tall, his stride like a great cat's and as soundless. Despite the heat, a cloak fell to his heels, and its deep cowl hid his face. Annatar murmured words into the King's ear and Ar-Pharazôn raised a hand.   
“Leave,” he said. “All of you.”   
  
With a tap of sandals, a rustle of cloth, the chamber emptied. The guards closed the double doors, and stood blank-eyed.   
When the stranger let fall his cloak, Sûla recognized the skill put into that simple gesture. He was performing. And then, he simply stared. It was said that Annatar looked like an Elf and if so, this man was also of that race. He wore black, a simple uniform of tunic, breeches and boots over sleek muscle; and he was stunning.   
His hair was raven, drawn up and away from his face to fall in a streaming horsetail that, if loose, must reach to his knees, thick as molasses. Like Annatar, his skin was white as almond milk, unlined. There was no shadow of stubble; this man had never grown a beard. The only softness about him was that hair, and the passionate scroll of the mouth, all else was sculpted angles. But his eyes dominated. They were large, fringed with feathery lashes, and a luminous violet. Sûla had never seen their colour before, never seen any-one save Annatar with such fierce intensity in their gaze. He took a step back as it rested on him, and in that heartbeat thought that the man knew everything he had ever done, all he was. When it left him, it was as if a fire had been directed elsewhere — at Annatar.   
  
_They know each other._   
  
And Sûla knew the Elf, or at least had heard of him. Even in his small village legends came out of the desert of the one the Haradhrim called the Dark Prince.   
  
The Elf's black brows went up a little, and then he bowed, and not to the King. He bowed, quite clearly, the gesture redolent of irony, to the Zigûr.   
  
Sûla did not know what happened after that. Annatar had sent him away, and returned only briefly to his chambers. His expression acted like a hand over Sûla's mouth. He had learned when to speak and when to be silent. Now, as he opened the outer door to Annatar's chambers, he wondered if he could summon the nerve to ask questions.  
  
The Zigûr had changed his clothes to a tunic of heavy, moss-green silk that left his long legs bare, a girdle of silver and enamel about his slim waist. His hair was drawn back in one long braid as when he worked. He beckoned.   
“Come with me. Yes, I know you are big with questions, and no doubt some will be answered. But anything you see this night stays here, unless I say otherwise.” He placed a finger over Sûla's lips.   
  
“Of course, my Lord.”   
  
Annatar took two silver cups, dropped them in a scrip. Sula fastened it at his waist, and followed his master to a part of the palace he had never ventured, though he had heard of it. Political prisoners were rumoured to be housed here. Two guards stood at the outer door. They were not the normal mould, these hard faced-men inured to the sounds of pain. When they saluted, Sûla realized this was not Annatar's first visit.   
  
There were no open cells, only small windows set at head height on each of the thick, iron-barred doors. Annatar halted before the last, spread his slender fingers and made a complex motion. There was a heavy clicking sound, and the door swung inward. Annatar halted on the threshold, raised his head; the delicate nostrils flared as if scenting. He clicked his fingers once, and stepped into the room. Sûla knew that there had been spies behind the walls, who would now be asleep. Annatar had used that magic before, and doubtless the two guards would see and hear nothing, if they were not already the Zigûr's creatures.   
  
He had seen worse places than this small chamber: the hold of the ship that had brought him to Númenor, the cell where he had waited for his sentence in Umbar. The floor was strewn with fresh straw, and the sound of dripping water came from another room, probably the latrine since there were no chamber pots in evidence. A lantern hung from a bracket, and there was a high, narrow window through which came a breath of sweet air. On a stone shelf that jutted from the wall lay the Elf. His hair was caught in a great coil above a back striped from shoulder to thigh with whip marks. Sûla recoiled. They did not look fresh, rather a sennight or more old, but the man he had seen earlier had not walked or looked like some-one brutally flogged.   
  
“He heals very quickly.” Annatar answered his unspoken question. “And without need of the elixir.”  
  
The man's head had been turned away from them, resting on his arms. Now, he raised it, looked around. His eyes gleamed like coloured lamps. He sat up smoothly, displaying a body of taut muscle and spoke, his voice rich and dark. The language was that which Sûla used in the freezing spell, and he had heard Annatar utter it more than once. It was Black Speech, which made one think of carved obsidian, sharp, black, deadly. Annatar answered, and his tone was as one who reprimands a servant. The man's beautiful mouth curled derisively in response. There was no fear in him that Sûla could see. Annatar moved to stand beside him, ran a hand down his back in a manner which might have been soothing save for those healing wheals. The Elf stiffened, closed his eyes, and said something through a snap of white teeth.   
  
“Sûla,” Annatar said. “Pour wine.”   
  
He did so, willing his hands not to shake, and proferred the first cup to Annatar. He waved it aside, pointed to the Elf, who hesitated, glanced at Sûla,and took it.   
“My thanks,” he said courteously, in Adûnaic, and drank, then to Annatar: “I can understand thy wanting me to act as thy replacement, but dost thou not think the King will want us both to...perform for him?” His lifted brow mocked.   
  
“No doubt he will at some point, Vanimórë. I look forward to it.”   
  
Sûla's heart pounded like a drum in his breast. Was this Elf, this Vanimórë to be _his_ replacement? Did the Zigûr not want him any-more? As if he had heard, Annatar said, “Once the boundaries are established, I will ensure you are attached to me, seconded to the King. You will join Sûla in attending on me.” He settled a hand on Sûla's shoulder. “Your first duty of course, is to do whatever Ar-Pharazôn desires, freeing me for other, more important matters.”   
  
“Of course, my Lord. Dost thou not always find a use for me?”   
  
Sûla had seen Annatar enraged, but the wrath that emanated from the Elf should have set fire to the door. But it felt like an ancient fury, a fire that fed on itself and was contained. Then those eyes came back to him, and Vanimórë murmured: “Thy taste is impeccable, but he is very young. Does he know what thou art doing to him? Another Malantur?”   
  
Sûla was out of his depth. These two were familiar with one another, and he felt shut out.   
  
“Malantur is a success,” Annatar said. “Sûla will be something else, and you will supply what he needs.” He smiled like a pretty cat. “You must admit it is rather amusing. The potion the King drinks is like watered wine, what Sûla has drunk is — ” The smile became a laugh. “Red Harvest.”   
  
Dorwinion Red Harvest, the finest, most expensive wine in the world. And Annatar had ordered it for this man, the Dark Prince, who had been flogged like the lowest criminal, and was healing at a rate that was impossible without the elixir. But then he was an Elf, or so legend said. Sûla groped for clarity, and found only more confusion. What did Annatar mean? What had he been drinking? He tried to speak. His mouth was dry as sand. Vanimórë tendered his cup, and the voluptuous fumes rose like incense. It was the colour of sunset.   
“Drink.” His voice was like the wine that melted through Sûla's cold belly, into his limbs.   
“My Lord,” he managed, unable to take his eyes from Vanimórë's. “Please. What does he mean?”   
  
Annatar sat down beside Vanimórë. Though their faces were not alike save in the graceful cast of bone, that faultless white flesh, there were similarities. But Vanimórë's eyes, despite their unhuman colour, were kinder, and it was he who answered. Annatar regarded Sûla with remote interest, the smile tucked into dimples.   
“I mean, young one, that...Annatar has chosen thee for what, for want of a better word, we must call immortality.” Vanimórë reached out, tucked a tendril of hair back behind Sûla's ear. The touch burned.   
“You, not the King. Eru help thee.” ~   
  
Sûla staggered, found himself caught and held by Vanimórë's hands. He smelled of Sandalwood.   
  
“This is one of those things that stays behind those lovely lips,” Annatar said through the rushing in his ears. “Tigôn is even now on his way to the city with his lord, and I am sure your ingenuity and his can arrange a meeting. You both spoke of hope. Hope ages well with time, Sûla, like a fine red wine. But never forget to whom you owe that hope.”   
  
“Tigôn?” Sûla snatched at the only word that made sense. _Immortality?_   
  
Vanimórë drew the slim young body into his arms, felt the shivers, the pound of his heart. Over the youth's tumbled black hair, he met smiling feline eyes.   
“Well played, father.” He stamped down on his anger. “It will always be their greatest desire, but why this one? He does not know what it entails, though thy touch is all over him, eating into his soul. But he has no power, no influence. What can he do for thee?”   
  
Sauron tilted his head.  
“Perhaps I am motivated by altruism.”   
  
“Try again. Thou art talking to me, remember?”   
  
“I am not like to forget. It really is very good to see you. At least there was one command you did not disobey. And why him?” He stroked Sûla's curls, and Vanimórë was not surprised at how well he could enact tenderness — it was a refinement of cruelty. “He has a natural talent for sorcery, greater than Malantur ever did. He will have power, he will have influence, which is what he has always wanted. And he loves. That is his weakness, as it has ever been yours.”   
  
Vanimórë let that pass. He knew his weaknesses well enough.  
“I saw; a golden haired boy.”   
  
“One of the Faithful. He too has drunk of the elixir, the shall we say _real_ version.”   
  
“Blood to this one and his lover, and seed to the King? I could almost laugh.”   
  
Only blood magic could truly extend a Mortal's lifespan as it had Malantur's, the so-called Mouth of Sauron. Hate seared Vanimórë's mind white at the thought of the man, his perversions. This boy was not as Malantur had been when he first came to Mordor, courageous, clever, but arrogant, with a taste for brutality. Sûla was a slave who held a dream of freedom and love. He could not know how immortality would change him, how it would bind him to Sauron. And there would be no freedom.   
  
“Your blood,” his father said lightly.   
  
“ _What?_ No.” He set the word down like a granite block. “I will not be a party to this. Create thine own monsters.”   
  
“Your blood,” Sauron repeated, as if he had not spoken. He slipped a hand into Vanimórë's hair, clenched it. “In the end you will do it, my son, out of pity, and love. For both of them.”   
  


~~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vanimórë was in Númenor almost until the end, when Sauron sent him back to Mordor.[Dark Prince. Chapter 15: Akallabêth.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10082/chapters/13128)

**Author's Note:**

> The terms below are from Elfscribe's own notes from Elegy for Númenor.
> 
> Zigûr - Adûnaic term meaning “wizard” and used to describe Sauron. 
> 
> Zirâmîki - beloved boy. An Elfscribe-invented word for a Númenórean male courtesan. Zirâmîkin, plural in particular for Ar-Pharazôn’s boys. A polite word like “courtesan.” 
> 
> Elendili - The Faithful. Those of Númenor who followed the old ways of Elros, many of whom sailed with Elendil and avoided the destruction of Númenor. Ancestors of Aragorn. 
> 
> Izrê - Beloved/Desired.


End file.
